Page 88 of The Endless Want

He remains very still. Too still. “I never said easier. I said safer.”

“For who? Me?” I ask. “Or for a man who can’t be in the same room as the woman he⁠—”

I stop myself. Not here. Not like this.

His voice softens, just barely. “You’re angry. I get that.”

“Angry doesn’t cover it. You haven’t acknowledged the child you say you want safe. You haven’t acknowledged what you said to me, the way you talked to me. You walked out, Declan—again.”

A flicker of something crosses his face—something raw—but it’s gone just as quickly.

He exhales slowly through his nose and glances at the training room door. “We shouldn’t do this here.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this at all,” I say, “but here we are.”

The silence stretches between us before a hand closes gently on my arm.

Nadia.

Her tone is breezy, but her eyes are sharp with understanding. “Time for weapons, princess. Ronan’s in a mood, and I’m not letting you be late.”

I let out a shaky breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Declan stands there, watching, shoulders tight. He looks like he wants to reach out but doesn’t trust himself to.

Nadia tugs me toward the door. “Let’s go. Before you two tear each other apart in the hallway and give me and Mackenzie something else to gossip about.”

We step into the training room. The glass door swings shut behind me. I don’t look back, but I feel him standing there until the moment he finally walks away.

The tension unwinds from my shoulders in a slow, painful drag. The air inside is warmer, humming with the sounds of padded footsteps, low conversation, and the clatter of equipment as Ronan adjusts a weapons rack on the far wall. It is grounding in a way the rest of the compound rarely is—structured, predictable, a world with rules that don’t fracture under the weight of emotion.

Nadia releases my arm only when she’s sure Declan is no longer hovering on the other side of the glass. She gives me a look, the kind only someone who has survived worse can give—part sympathy, part warning, part get your head straight before you drown.

“You did good,” she murmurs, reaching for a pair of practice knives. “You kept your voice even. That’s a victory with him.”

“It doesn’t feel like one.”

“It never does,” she says, handing me the dulled blade. “But trust me. With Declan? Holding your ground is the only language he actually hears.”

I almost laugh—almost. My voice feels frayed. “I didn’t feel strong out there.”

“You felt honest,” Nadia replies. “Those are one and the same.”

Before I can answer, Ronan claps his hands from the center of the room. “Alright. Blades first.” A chorus of mock groans echoes from the group.

Training begins. It’s the same routine as always, but today it feels like a lifeline. My body knows these movements now—the pivot, the wrist turn, the controlled strike. Even when my mind spirals, my muscles understand what to do, how to react, how to anchor me.

Nadia pairs with me first, her stance relaxed but her eyes alert. She tests me harder than usual, pushing my reactions, making me predict her sweeps before they land.

“You’re distracted,” she says quietly, ducking under my elbow and tapping the blunt edge of her knife against my ribs. “That would’ve gutted you.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

“Also true.”

She steps back, twirling her knife in an arc that glints beneath the overhead lights. “What did he want, out there?”